


...opens some doors...

by scrub456



Series: A Specific Set of Skills [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin John Watson, Douglas Adams, M/M, Mercenary John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Smitten Sherlock, Towel Day 2018, he can't help himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: The entire universe is conspiring against him. It's the only logical explanation.“Every single decision we make, every breath we draw, opens some doors and closes many others. Most of them we don't notice. Some we do.”― Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless





	...opens some doors...

“Damn, Shezza. What’re you wearing?” Bill stops just in front of him and squats down, imitating his posture. She reaches out and flips a corner of his shock blanket.

He doesn't look up beyond her tatty old Converse (it's about time for another abandoned bin bag of new shoes to show up near the mess of abandoned building Bill and the lads call home). “Why are you here?”

“I remembered the cab number,” she shrugs.

“Good for you.” Sherlock huffs and continues staring at the shell casing standing upright and alone on the pavement.

“I spread the word. The lads spotted ‘em. Called me when they saw where he was headed.” She reaches behind her and drags the pink travel case up. “Thought after you did your thing you'd wanna give this to that copper mate of yours.”

“Not my mate.” He reaches for his coat pocket and sighs. It'll be days before he gets his coat back. He doesn't care about the suit. He's got suits. He just doesn't trust that neanderthal forensics tech, Anderson, to respect his beloved Belstaff. 

“Here's for tonight.” Sherlock hands her several bills. “And extra for turning that in to Lestrade so I don’t have to.”

Bill groans. “He always asks me too many questions. Usually about you.”

Sherlock leans down so he's on his hands and knees, eye level with the shell casing. “Tell him whatever you want.”

“Wait… Really?” Her eyes light up with the potential for mischief.

“Make up whatever nonsense you like. Just get rid of the case.” His face is practically pressed to the ground. He's not sure what he's trying to see, but he's sure if he looks hard enough there will be evidence of Jack.

“Don't _you_ need it to figure out why he did it? You're not just giving him to the coppers are ya?” Bill shoves some hair that's fallen loose out of her eyes and watches him warily.

“I know _why_ he did it.” He sits back on his heels and sighs. “I don’t need the case to learn the _how,_ ” he pulls one of the glass bottles containing a poison pill out of his pocket. “And I’ll never learn _‘who for’_ from him now.”

“Why not?” Bill worries her bottom lip with her teeth and eyes the bullet casing. “Did you shoot ‘em?”

“No I did not. Why would I shoot him before I got all the information I needed?” He’s pouting. He was wrong before, in the park. This. This has earned him the right to pout. He realizes too late his strop has an audience. “Not to say that I couldn’t have. Shot him. I possess the ability to do so. Was about to disarm him myself. Except...” He’s desperately trying to save face, but it’s Bill he’s talking to, and she just laughs at him.

And it’s Jack’s fault. Every last bit of it.

“Hold on,” Bill puts her hands up and tries to stop laughing long enough to talk. “ _He_ was here? Your boyfriend shot the cabbie?”

“He’s _not_ my…” Sherlock growls, snatches up the shell casing, and stands. “Yes. Jack shot him. I’m sure he earned a hefty sum for killing a serial killer.”

“He tell you that?” She stands and extends the handle on the rolling case.

“He doesn’t have to tell me, I saw him here. Why else would he be here?” Wrapping the shock blanket more tightly around himself, he glances around the scene and spots Lestrade and Mycroft having what appear to be angry words. He ducks his head and turns to face away from them.

“Sounds like he had your back.” Bill shrugs. “Everyone needs that sometimes.”

“I do just fine on my own.” He huffs. Then deflates, ego once again pricked. “I’ll need that file I asked you to hold.”

“Sure,” Bill rolls her eyes and digs through her rucksack. “It’s her, by the way.” She hands the file over. “Moran. She’s definitely that Colonel I saw at the center.”

Sherlock grabs her by both shoulders. “You didn’t read the file did you?” Bill glares and nods as she struggles away from him. “Damn it. You can’t…” Sherlock tugs at his hair. “No one can know. You have to forget that you’ve seen this. Forget _her._ ”

“What is your problem?” She refrains from shouting, but barely.

“She will kill you. Do you understand me?” Sherlock steps right into Bill’s space again. He knows better. Knows she’s able to inflict harsh and immediate bodily harm. But she has to understand, he has to make her see. “This isn’t just another case. You can’t tell anyone. You can’t sketch her. Don’t even try keeping an eye out for her. Just stay away from this one, Bill. I need you to swear to me you’ll forget all about it.”

She stares up at him wide eyed. “How do you…”

“Jack said she’s tried to hire him. She’s got the means to hire a mercenary who can’t be tracked.” He swallows hard and takes a step back. “Until I know more, until I… I need to talk to Jack… But until then…”

Bill nods somberly and makes a zipping motion across her lips. He believes her. 

“Good. Okay.” Sherlock nods. He’s not sure of the proper etiquette here as he takes a step to go. Should he hug her? He would hate that, and he’s certain she’ll strangle him if he tries. But she’s the closest thing to a little sister… A _real_ sibling -- he casts a glance back and sees Mycroft catch sight of him -- he has, and it really would be a devastating loss if something were to happen to her. He clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot awkwardly.

Glancing around, Bill grins and saves him from making a fool of himself. “Oh shite. That lady copper’s here? Shezza, you have to let me give her the travel case. _Please_?”

“ _Why_ would you…” Sherlock frowns. “You fancy her?”

“What? No. God. _No._ Just… Well…” Bill blushes and tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “I just…” She’s scrambling for an excuse. “I just like to wind her up, yeah? Same as you.”

“Suit yourself.” He waves his hand dismissively and starts to walk away before Mycroft can catch up to him. “Then get somewhere safe, okay?” He glances back at her.

With a lopsided smile and wink, Bill tugs the pink case along behind her as she ducks under the police tape.

“Idiot,” Sherlock smiles fondly to himself as he cuts down a side alley. He realizes he’s starving, for once, and considers stopping off for a basket of chips. Or dim sum. But he looks down at his atrocious attire -- _damn Lestrade,_ it’s worse even than when he goes undercover as one of his homeless network -- and decides against being seen in public.

He’s got a reputation, after all.

Not that the entire universe doesn’t seem to be conspiring against him at the moment or anything. 

He grumbles to himself as he takes the longest, most convoluted way back to his bedsit possible, just to avoid Mycroft’s bloody cameras. And he tries to draw connection, pull threads, anything, to make sense of Jack being involved with the cabbie. 

Sherlock wants to believe Bill’s theory. Wants to believe Jack would find him. Come to his rescue. No, not that… That makes him sound like some wilting heroine in a trashy romance novel. He’s not. But… _But,_ Jack is rather dashing. And…

“Focus, dammit,” he growls to himself. Because Jack _is_ dashing. He’s clever, and witty, and doesn’t _look_ the part of assassin. But he is. He’s an assassin and he’s good at what he does. And he’s a mercenary, he works for the highest bidder. Sherlock would hire him if he needed…

Well, now. _That._ That’s not a bad idea. 

He’ll hire Jack. Pay him to not kill his suspects. To help him _find_ the suspects. Then they can decide together when, and if, the situation requires Jack’s particular brand of _cleaning up_. That could work. Sherlock’s not morally opposed to someone like Jeff Hope dying for his crimes, he’d just prefer having a say in _when._

He’s a bit giddy as he takes the last few steps to his door. He can pay Jack, and Jack won’t need to work for Moran, or anyone else. And he can ditch his possessive partner, and be Sherlock’s partner, and…

Fuck.

Sherlock pauses with his key in the lock. He only ever sets the lock on the doorknob when he leaves. Never any of the three deadbolts -- Mrs. Hudson had not been thrilled with him when he’d had those installed -- which are all now locked. He only locks those when he’s inside the flat, and then only two of the three. And that he only does to irritate Mycroft (who mysteriously possesses a set of keys), who is the only person with enough lack of self preservation to actually _want_ to enter Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock doesn’t even like going in there. Mrs. Hudson would certainly never let herself in, not after the incident with the snakes.

He fumbles with the locks, as he’s not used to unlocking them from the outside, aware he’s alerting his intruder to his presence, and cautiously opens the door. He never knows what to expect when _big brother_ drops in.

“If you were as clever as you claimed to be, we could have had this conversation back at the crime scene.” Sherlock shrugs off the shock blanket and toes off his shoes. He sniffs and freezes when he gets a whiff of the thai food on the table. There’s a mountainous heap snoring on the couch and…

“I don't know. I’ve been reliably informed I’m pretty damn smart.” Jack turns from the sink, his hands wet and soapy from scrubbing Sherlock’s month old pile of dirty dishes. “You know, you should really do something about this mold.”


End file.
